One is the Loneliest Number
by unavoidable-k
Summary: He had more to think about during the sleepless nights than he'd ever let on.


It wasn't as glamorous a duty as he tried to make it out to be, though he feared the others knew this full well.

Inside, he felt he gave them more credit than they acted like he did, but even he had his doubts. Self-doubt was a nasty thing and he was slowly becoming unaware of how long the mental parasite had manifested inside his very own mind.

He tried not to think about it, but he spent most of his time alone, brooding - more than enough time to warrant obsessing over his own mental state and it left him drained.

He didn't know why he did it to himself.

But that wasn't to say he was completely miserable, as popular belief would have it. He actually found himself in a good mood once in a while, during the daytimes which seemed to be becoming shorter and shorter with each passing night.

He liked to think it was the little things that made him happy and those little things, though he would never dare to admit it aloud, were the others.

It wasn't anything as forward as interacting with them- he tended to avoid casual interaction with the others, for whatever reason, he didn't know, but merely watching them interact with one another brought him a sense of tranquility that eased the fear inside.

Yet he was so willing to give them up and for what- his own safety?

His own safety didn't mean jack shit to anybody and on the longer nights, he desperately wished it didn't matter to him either. Maybe then he could be the leader he should be- the leader the others needed him to be.

Not the leader he actually was.

The leader he needed to be was a selfless, caring individual. A hero, if you would, but that could not have been farther from what he really was. It was a sad truth, in a way and though he knew this was not what he needed to be, just why couldn't he change?

He'd had enough of the empty promises he made to himself on the more lonely of nights, when the moon was obscured by the thick smog that seemed to threaten the sky's very existence. He couldn't do that to himself any more and though he knew it was selfish, he couldn't pretend like he could change.

It hurt him more than anything else could.

He could watch the others live from a distance, doing what they did best whether that was inventing, or drawing, or guarding or reading and it would always fill him with tranquility but now all he could think of was the dread when he realise their happiness would become discomfort in a matter of seconds if they so much as acknowledged his presence.

Of course at a time like this, he'd be doing Eight a great dishonour. Eight was loyal to him and only to him- he was obedient and strong and those were admirable qualities in anybody.

But even though Eight was his closest companion- he did not dare say friend- he couldn't help but feel his personality was moulded around his own and by his own decision. He knew from the moment he'd laid eyes on him that Eight wasn't the sharpest tool in the shed, and that wasn't necessarily a bad thing, but it left him vulnerable in a mental way.

It allowed people like him to win his affections.

He almost regretted taking him under his wing because perhaps Eight would've had a fuller life if his relationships with the others weren't so strained, just like his own were. It hurt because it was like he was warping the guard into being like him and the moment that realisation hit him he wanted to vomit.

He had respect for Eight, because his strong loyalty was not drilled into his head by him. That was a natural trait and a trait that could not be warped, no matter how cunning or manipulative a person was. Eight may be intellectually stunted but he knew who he was and he knew what his job was because even without his leader standing above him, ordering him around, he would still be a guard.

And yet, despite his personality which clearly left something to be desired, he was still respected by the others because of his natural traits. Because even though he was used like a tool by him to inflict fear and domination upon the others, they respected him because in a situation of true danger, Eight would protect them.

Despite openly bullying Six and practically assaulting others, Eight was still more respectable than he was.

Well, he couldn't blame them.

Eight never received the glares he had. He'd been shot the dirtiest looks, mostly by Seven but he could remember every single one. Perhaps it was the reason he refrained from personally interacting with the others. Perhaps it was why he kept the others at arms length.

If he were to get too close, he'd only be pushed away.

He didn't mind that at first, telling himself that it was just one of the many burdens of being a leader but who was he kidding. He hadn't expected to live this long- he'd always assumed their existence was temporary but here they were, far past the extinction of humanity and that was when he felt like he was losing his will.

Yet he remained hardheaded and selfish and for what reason? To continue protecting his kind from a thing that didn't exist? Or at the very least, a thing that wasn't awake.

But who knows what would happen if he let them roam around. Beasts were very much still a threat around here and when Seven had taken off with the twins- in a manner that reminded him very much of a mother leaving an estranged husband with their children- he'd realised he'd lost their one decent scouter.

The very topic of Seven didn't sit right with him anymore and she was often the root of his thoughts late at night. Her hard expression, filled with loathing was etched very deep into his mind and ate away at him more than he would ever admit.

That wasn't to say he agreed with her- he still fully believed she was reckless and selfish in her own way, though he was certainly not one to say that, but in the aspect of their group as a whole, he'd lost a valuable member.

He'd regretted that deeply.

He'd often considered if it were possible to trade places with her and the twins. The others, even Eight, would undoubtedly be happy or at the very least, indifferent to such a change. Maybe Two would butt his opinion in as he always did but he'd cave in eventually. He always did, for as long as he could remember.

And then there was Two, as always. His longest standing companion and the root of many mishaps. Two was undoubtedly the most popular in their group, being approachable, kind, sensible -to a degree- and all around loveable.

Basically, the polar opposite of him.

And though Two often annoyed him to no end, he still had a connection with him- one forged from their time together in the past, and Two treated him better than everybody else did anyway.

Though treated maybe have been the wrong word to use. Interacted, maybe. Two was almost always willing to give him the benefit of the doubt or some kind of compromise, despite having committed selfish acts time and time again, like a lesson not learnt, and he often wondered just why that was.

Especially since he would be ready to cast him away at a moments notice.

But that would only be in a situation of dire circumstance, he was frail and weak- not easily able to keep up with the others and he blamed that on his countless excursions into the emptiness.

No matter what, he just couldn't understand what the old inventor saw in it. What joy was there in sneaking around in an oversized, life-ridden garbage pile, especially with the threat of beasts lurking around every corner.

He'd hated spending nights out there in the past. He'd hated the feeling of dread, stone cold in his metaphorical stomach and he'd certainly hated being so at risk and fearing for his life.

But that seemed to be what it all boiled down to. Fearing for his life. Was that what set him apart from the others? He valued his life perhaps more than anything but the others seemed so ready to throw theirs down and no matter what- no matter how many sleepless nights he spent pondering the very concept, he just could not understand. How could they be so ready to fight dangers ten times bigger than they were? How could they put so much trust in one another?

And why couldn't he do the same?

He was no hero, that was for sure, and he never really wanted to be. There was nothing enjoyable about swooping in to save somebody if it could've been prevented in the first place and that's how he did things. Prevention. There was no need to rescue somebody if they didn't waltz out into danger in the first place.

Yet the others didn't quite understand that. They saw it as a barrier that kept them within his domain and yes, he wanted them in his sight because he didn't trust them to do as he said, which was, in all honesty, a valid concern considering they never did as he said to begin with.

He couldn't count how many times he'd have to berate Two for sneaking off out with Five in tow, quaking behind him in fear. Two would always apologise, rather dismissively, but the odd gleam in his eye told him that he would be doing it again.

Despite having rather harsh standards set in place for the others to follow, he wasn't one to physically restrain them- that would be stupid, but sometimes he'd jokingly think to himself it was probably the best idea yet.

He'd think to himself a lot, especially in the recent months- and talk to himself too. Now, he had to admit that was a little strange of him but the others didn't need to know that. It wasn't like they were lurking outside his door every night, maybe plotting some kind of mutiny.

Or maybe they were. Who knew- he'd be surprised if they hadn't thought of it sooner. Perhaps they'd be better off that way...

It was a pitiful thing to think, he found, yet the cynical yet self-pitying thoughts occupied his mind more than he'd liked. Perhaps he was beginning to regret- regret this, his life, as a whole...

I mean, what good was it doing anyone but him? And even then, that was a bit of an overstatement. Lying in bed at night, being plagued by insomnia for months and months and playing it off like he was able to sleep soundly- spending his days on his throne muttering to himself and pretending like he was coughing whenever Eight happened to look up- riding the bucket lift to the very top of the watchtower during his darker moments, peering over the edge wondering if he should just jump-

...but no.

He found his mental state was continuously spiralling downwards and that became more apparent to him during the night. Some nights were more merciful that others, granting a few peaceful thoughts, a soothing breeze and allowing the sun to rise earlier than normal. However, the bad nights were bad- and getting worse by the night. A silence that just seemed to ring inside his skull, irritatingly, and a darkness that threatened to reveal the shadow of monsters- ones which he had refused to acknowledge but was now coming very close to doing so.

He wondered if Six had it this bad. He'd had more nightmares than the rest of them put together and his obsessive drawings of the 'source' and inane mumblings really put into perspective how little sanity he really had.

Maybe he was being too cruel. He'd spent the last few years outright ignoring him but more recently Six's gaze seemed attracted to him more often. He'd glance at him out of the corner of his eye as he worked and he feared that Six knew what was going on inside his head.

That, however, would be preposterous.

But still he couldn't help but worry if the others knew more about him than they let on. He didn't want them to know about him- he valued his privacy perhaps even more than his own life but the fear of that privacy being breached terrified him.

It would reveal far too much about him and his weakening mental state to the others. He couldn't have that. He'd be deemed unfit as a leader and unwell as a stitchpunk.

Well he was deemed those anyway.

He just needed to find a way to get through those endless nights without continually losing sanity. He wasn't like Two, who could sit and tinker with a contraption for hours and hours, which he did more often than he slept. His patience was much shorter and, thought he didn't like to admit it, so was his attention span. He could read books, sure, but anything involving strenuous mental and physical activity just seemed like a chore, especially during the night.

Drawing was out of the question. He'd often wondered if the ink Six used had something to do with his odd state, not to mention ink-stains were hardly befitting of a leader. He couldn't walk around with ink stained onto his fabric.

Ink was hell to wash out, as well.

Instead, he found himself up on the watchtower, even when not on some insanity-fuelled suicidal excursion, though he'd admit he'd die on the spot if the others found out about it.

Somehow, the watchtower gave him peace. It gave him something to look at, even if he'd seen it all before- but more than that, it gave him more sorrow than anything else.

This world used to thrive with life, thousands and thousands of species all living together, harmoniously or not and, though he'd never admit it aloud, that was kind of beautiful in it's own way.

But it was gone now. Perhaps even indefinitely and all thanks to the mistakes of man. The endless wars, the chaos and the bloodshed all stemming from the selfish desires of humans and it was enough to literally annihilate the world they once lived in.

And he was left to pick up the pieces.

He wondered how his creator could do this to them. Gift them with the task of saving a world that was already long dead. A world torn apart by humans and for what- for control?

A war stemmed from the selfish desires of a chancellor who wanted utmost control over those around him, leading into a dictatorship and then-

It destroyed the world.

And he was following in his footsteps.


End file.
